


The Tower

by multifandomstylinson (ViolaWay)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Prisoner!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:20:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolaWay/pseuds/multifandomstylinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Tudor Britain, you don't insult Anne Boleyn and get away with it. But Sherlock never lies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tower

**Author's Note:**

> this is a fanfiction where i show off and have a totally unsatisfying ending to top it all off. you have been warned. 'tis very angst-ridden.
> 
> (random note: in this, sherlock deletes less from his 'hard drive' because of how tedious his life is, making him actually very knowledgable. he would probably know about the solar system.)

John paced the length of the dank, grimy corridor, truncheon hanging conspicuously from his waist. Water dripped down the dark walls, and soft moans issued from the cells where prisoners lurked behind bars.

“Watson, we’ve got another one!” a familiar guard yelled. John could hear his heavy footsteps approaching the corner. “’E got caught slaggin’ off the queen!” Moran’s voice echoed through the tower, gleeful, with the rough lilt that defined him as a commoner. John had never quite gotten the same joy that apparently came (for people like Moran) from arresting people for unjust reasons. He liked to think that he had retained his conscience.

“She’s not actually the queen. As of yet, she is a courtesan,” a deep voice said, and John could almost hear the eye roll that accompanied the words.

“She’s as good as,” John responded immediately, glancing up. He had to be loyal to Anne Boleyn if he wished to keep his head attached to his shoulders. This man obviously had no such desire.

He took in Moran’s bulking form before his eyes shifted to that of his companion. This man was tall (which usually irritated John, as he was meant to be the intimidating one), but this new prisoner certainly didn’t look intimidating at all. He was dressed in the unmistakable rich tones of an aristocrat, but he wore the clothes uncomfortably, shifting restlessly from foot to foot. So he was from court, then, and had been caught spreading filth about Anne Boleyn. What else was new? John saw dozens of new prisoners like this every day. Most of them refused to take back their claims…and they were tortured. John almost winced at the mere thought. He didn’t want this man to get tortured, with his inquisitive green eyes (or were they blue?), and full pink lips, looking very much like an overgrown child in baggy clothes and such a foreboding setting.

“Hello,” John said cautiously. “And your name is?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

John gasped. The Holmes’ were a prestigious family in Tudor England: one of them being arrested and taken to the Tower could have a serious impact on their reputation. It was disastrous for them if they wished to remain in the King’s favour, which was essential in times such as these. John’s heart went out to them for their son’s stupid mistake. He knew of Sir and Lady Holmes, and had met their son Mycroft on a few occasions, but this was the first he had heard of another son. Sherlock. What a curious name, John thought to himself.

“And why are you here?” he asked.

“The queen is infertile,” Sherlock said.

“What? But…she’s given birth to a perfectly healthy daughter already!” John protested, and Moran grunted in agreement from behind him.

“I would assume that the king has caused her some damage which will prevent her from having any more healthy babies,” Sherlock replied calmly. “Maybe he kicked her in the stomach while she was pregnant. Emperor Nero did that to his second wife Poppaea, and she died.”

“Who the hell was Poppaea?” Moran asked roughly.

“The Emperor Nero was a Roman…but surely you know…?” Sherlock said, as if it was obvious. John shook his head, exasperated. Not many Tower Guards had the spare time in which to read extensively about Roman Emperors. Sherlock continued: “Anyway, he was famed for beginning the Great Fire of Rome. Probably untrue, and he blamed the Christians. Back then, it was sinful to be Christian. Now, it’s sinful to not be. That would be the other reason. I just think it’s totally unrealistic to believe in something without facts, and evidence.”

John could barely keep up with this man. His train of thought appeared to flit about from one subject to the next with barely a link, tangents spiralling in directions that John tried to follow, until Sherlock returned to the original point.

“Anyway, at first Nero was married to Octavia, his half-sister, by order of his mother, Agrippina. He got tired of her after too long and started an affair with a slave girl, Acté. Agrippina was horrified, so Nero killed her, and then he married Poppaea. She might have suffered a miscarriage, but it’s so much more interesting if Nero kicked her to death, don’t you think?”

“I thought you didn’t believe in things without evidence?” John ventured.

“Ah, yes. I like you; you’re a lot more intelligent than the guards who brought me here. They just told me to keep my thoughts to myself. Usually I do, but sometimes people are simply too idiotic to keep quiet. I believe that Nero kicked her to death because the historical sources write with a distinct style; it’s fairly easy to tell where and where not they are lying. It’s all about the study of the written word, and how liars lie,” Sherlock explained.

“Shut ‘im up,” Moran ordered gruffly, gesturing towards John’s weapon.

“No, I-I’ll take him to his cell. There’s one upstairs…he’ll have to share,” John said.

“Well they ain’t ‘ere for comfort, are they?” Moran laughed harshly.

John took Sherlock’s arm and led him along the passage, trying to ignore the screams of agony as they got closer to the rooms where limbs were stretched, where flesh was sliced, and where pain was relative to nothing. Sherlock refused to be oblivious, however.

“Will that happen to me?” he inquired calmly.

“Um.”

“It will, won’t it? Well, trust me: it’s not for long. Soon, those who see the situation for what it truly is will not be punished as harshly. He’ll go off her. Already has, probably,” Sherlock said.

“Off her? What do you mean?”

“Think about it, and I know you can: you’re not a complete idiot. He has the power to divorce whomever he wishes, or to behead them. Personally, I think Anne Boleyn is headed for a beheading. Isn’t he planning to secretly marry her, though? Or has he already? They didn’t declare the daughter illegitimate, so he must be. Well. Soon they will announce Anne’s ascension to power, dispel Catherine for good, and the divorce will be totally legal,” Sherlock rambled on, leaving John with a spinning head, trying to make sense of all the information.

“Um, we’re here. At your cell. Sorry, but you’re sharing with a real psycho,” John apologised, opening the door. The sound of nails scratching into a wall made John’s head spin and the back of his neck prickle: the other occupant of the cell was awake, and he was tracing those patterns again. Horrific ones, of mutilation and death, and disgusting things in between.

“I’m sure I’ll manage,” replied Sherlock dryly, sweeping into the small room.

***

Sherlock did not manage well. Moriarty, his cellmate, was clingy and repulsive and forgot about things like personal hygiene…and personal space. Admittedly, it was hard to wash in a place like this (or in Tudor Britain at all, Sherlock thought bitterly) but the stinking breath that lingered on his cheek was both unwelcome and revolting. Moriarty had killed four people before being imprisoned. Sherlock had insulted the queen. However, they were being imprisoned as though these were the same offence. The days rolled by with inappropriate touches, sporadic beatings and occasional torture, but Sherlock sat through it all.

And, soon enough, there became a reason to go on.

That reason was a kind, thoughtful guard who acted differently from the rest. Who was reluctant to turn the wheel that would stretch Sherlock’s limbs to inconceivable lengths, who gave him extra food (taking some from Moriarty’s plate, as if both Sherlock and Moriarty wouldn’t be able to tell). John Watson talked to Sherlock, sometimes, and it was the only thing that made him think about a brighter future.

Moriarty, too, was intelligent, and could deduce things from small details that most people missed. If only he hadn’t been so sadistic, and so cruel, then maybe he would have been the one that made Sherlock feel better day after day.

But no.

Sherlock got two meagre meals per day, and Moriarty got one and a half. In the morning, Moran would stalk in and shove a pitiful amount of gruel at them before leaving. Lunch, and there was another guard. He never actually gave them any lunch, but he did hang around in the corridor, taunting them. Sherlock deduced that his first name was Jefferson, and Moriarty had giggled and pointed out that his last name was Hope, in a way that indicated he thought Sherlock would be impressed. Sherlock had simply recoiled.

But then came dinner, and that was when John would arrive, small plates unbalanced by the increase in nutrition for Sherlock. He would smile weakly at Sherlock and glance around nervously before sitting down—as far away from Moriarty as he could get, Sherlock noted—and he would talk.

“My sister, Harry—Harriet. She was caught kissing a maid the one time we went to court as a family. My mother dispelled her, of course.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

“You’re not supposed to kiss someone of the same gender as you. It’s wrong,” John had said simply. Sherlock thought about the time Moriarty had forced his lips onto his, the slimy wetness of it all…but he remembered Irene also, the woman he had been betrothed to. She hadn’t been much better.

“Why?”

“Because…well, because…”

“Did Harry love the maid?” Sherlock asked. For all his logical and facts, he saw love as a genetic probability, all things considered.

“Harriet did not. That’s impossible.”

“Actually, we’re all a collection of chemicals. Say men who love women, and women who love men, they have green chemicals in their blood, making them fall in love with the ‘right’ people. And the women who love women, and the men who love men, they have purple chemicals. It’s all reactions, none more valid them the other,” Sherlock sighed impatiently. Describing these things to…well, _anyone_ was so difficult. No one understood it like he did. It was so simple in his mind.

“But the bible…!” John said.

“I bet you’ve never actually read the bible; it’s in Latin. They could be telling you anything,” Sherlock replied.

John shook his head and got up, leaving without another word.

***

John was serving a mousy girl called Molly (who was accused of being a witch because she muttered to herself whenever she got particularly nervous) when Moran barged in with the news.

“Holmes is getting hung,” he grunted.

“Hanged,” John corrected instinctively. “Wait, what!? Why?”

“His parents requested it,” Moran said.

“They can’t!” John said desperately. “Oh my God…”

“Takin’ the Lord’s name in vain. That’s punishable by…”

“I know what it’s punishable by!” John growled, pushing past the hulking guard and running up the steps that were next to Molly’s cell, which the girl had shared until a few days with an unpleasant man who had been hanged, as well. John remembered Anderson’s terrified expression as he had been dragged up the steps, onto the wooden platform where the rope swung, back and forth, back and forth.

It couldn’t happen to Sherlock.

John rushed past the bars until they all blurred together. It had been a week since his last conversation with Sherlock, and the irony of their last conversation was clear in his mind. He’d told Sherlock that it was wrong to love a man, and yet here he was, rushing after a decidedly male prisoner who he had undeniably fallen for. Yes, the irony was not lost on him.

He reached the door and almost slipped on the damp on the floor. There was a leak dripping gradually from the roof, cold water slipping below John’s neckline. His hands shook as he fished the keys off his belt, shoving the metal into the keyhole and swinging the door open.

“Get the fuck out,” he growled at Moriarty, who scampered away, obviously with thoughts of escape. John laughed mirthlessly, knowing that Moran would catch the psychopath before he got out.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, and the man turned around from where he was curled in the corner of the cell.

He’d been crying. That was the first thing John noticed, taking in the matted curls and the dull grey eyes.

“What?” Sherlock croaked. “I suppose you know. That’s why you came back.”

“I love you.”

There was silence for a little while. Then…

“You said that was wrong.” Sherlock sounded confused. John didn’t blame him. But it had been leading up to this for years, all the little things that he’d denied at the time, but Sherlock had been the trigger that had changed his mind.

John only wished it hadn’t taken this to make him realise.

“I-I changed my mind.”

“You feel guilty because I’m about to die,” Sherlock responded, voice dead.

“No, that’s not it!”

“It is. Please…leave.”

“No.”

“We’ve only known each other for a few weeks. You’re kind to me, yes, and you were always nicer than the others…”

***

_“Why do you know so much?” John asked. “Isn’t it all a bit…unnecessary?”_

_“It is. Sometimes I despise myself for digesting all the useless information. But it distracts me from the real monotony of being a rich, privileged member of society. Not that this is any better.”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“Why?”_

_“Because you…you don’t deserve this. You’re intelligent, and wonderful, and you see things that no one else sees. You know what I’ve had for dinner without me telling you, you know where I go home at night and it just seems…you know everything about everything.”_

_“I don’t,” Sherlock admitted. “Sometimes I think I barely know anything.”_

***

“I’m so sorry, Sherlock,” John whispered, crouching down.

“I should have expected it,” he replied. “They never liked me. Hated me, even. Curiosity was punished in our household.”

Sherlock hesitated before pulling John down to sit next to him, leaning his head against the guard’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” John mumbled repetitively, tears pooling in his eyes.

“You’re the only reason I had to stay."


End file.
